Page 17 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Ihate meetings that don’t solve anything.
Chance Carter is pacing across the back of the firehouse conference room, tension rolling off him in waves. He’s got a folder in one hand and a half-empty coffee in the other, and if his jaw gets any tighter, he’s going to crack a molar. Captain Morgan, on the other hand, is leaning back in a chair like this is just another Thursday.
The contrast between the two men is stark. Chance, still early in his career as an arson investigator, moves with the restless energy of someone who wants to prove himself. Morgan, seasoned and unshakable, has the air of a man who's seen too many fires to be rattled by just one more.
I plant my hands on the edge of the table, leaning in with a simmering edge in my voice. “So, let me get this straight—you still have nothing? No suspects, no solid leads, no movement at all?”
Morgan exhales slowly, flipping through a small stack of black-and-white photos of the scene like they’ll suddenly whisper a confession so he can get me out of his hair. His jaw tightens. "Not no leads," he mutters, tone edged with frustration. "Just no good ones. Everything we’ve got is either adead end, a rumor, or circumstantial as hell. Nothing we can act on—yet."
“It’s been weeks,” I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I have to force myself not to slam them down on the table. Every day that passes without a lead feels like another insult, like whoever torched the Silver Willow is laughing while we fumble in the dark. "You’re telling me there’s not a single viable lead? Not one person worth questioning again?"
Chance stops pacing, drags a hand through his hair, and exhales hard, his frustration practically vibrating in the air. "We know, Sawyer. Trust me—none of us are sleeping easy. Every dead end eats at us like we’re the ones who lit the match. We’re not giving up—but damn, we’re sick of hitting walls."
“Someone torched my restaurant,” I bite out, my voice low and sharp. “They’ve set fires to homes, a yacht, and half a dozen other places. You think I care how your team feels about it—I care about stopping the person responsible before someone ends up dead.” When I want answers, I get them. That’s how it works when you’re used to calling shots, writing checks, and solving problems before they start. But this? This helpless waiting game? It’s driving me up the damn wall.
Morgan shoots me a hard look, his jaw tightening. “We’re doing everything we can, Sawyer. Getting theatrical won’t change the facts.”
“Doesn’t seem like you're doing a damn thing,” I snap, the words slipping out sharper than intended, laced with the frustration that’s been building for weeks. I’m not used to running into this kind of wall—especially not when I’m the one footing the bill. When I push, things move. When I demand, I get answers. But here I am, stuck in the same damn place, with nothing but burned blueprints and empty promises. It grates more than I want to admit.
Chance leans his hip against the table, his voice lower. “Look, Sawyer, if you want to loop in the state Fire Marshal’s office, I won’t stop you. We could use the extra eyes. Extra resources.”
Morgan cuts him a glare. “We don’t need the state crawling up our asses.”
“What we need,” Chance says, voice low and tight, shooting Morgan an unmistakable side-eye, “is a damn miracle—or a break. And if that comes from outside the department, I say bring it on.”
The room hums with quiet tension. I glance between the two men. The frustration is a steady thrum behind my ribs. I don’t care whose jurisdiction gets bruised. I want answers.
“I’ll make the call tomorrow,” I say, straightening. “If someone’s burning down this town for fun, I’m not sitting around waiting for anything else to go up in smoke.”
Morgan stands, slow and deliberate. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Hope so,” I say. “Before someone ends up dead.”
I walk out before I say something that’ll land me in hot water, the smell of stale coffee still lingering behind me. The sun’s too bright outside, too clean for how dirty this whole thing feels. But one thing is clear: if I want answers, I might need to dig for them myself.
Pelican Point’s just one town over, and while Hooplas will always have my loyalty, Jumpin’ Jacks makes a damn good burger—good enough that even I’ll admit it’s worth the short drive. Ian wanted to talk without distractions, away from familiar eyes and ears, so this was the obvious choice.
Jumpin’ Jacks is packed, as usual. It’s the chaos that somehow feels like comfort—loud conversations, laughterechoing off the wood-paneled walls, the sizzle of burgers hitting the grill, and the ever-present scent of saltwater that clings to everything. Ian’s already at a booth near the back, framed by a neon sign advertising the drink special of the day. He’s sipping a beer, head tilted down as he scrolls through something on his phone with the focus that says he's either reading emails or checking the scores.
I slide into the seat across from him and bump the table with my knee, making his beer wobble.
He glances up with a lopsided grin. “You're late.”
“You’re lucky I came at all,” I grumble, grabbing a menu I don’t need. I know this place like the back of my hand.
The waitress comes over, barely hiding the flirt in her smile as she zeroes in on Ian and me like we’re the main course. Her voice drops half an octave when she asks if we’re ready to order, and she twirls her pen like she’s in a romcom audition.
Ian doesn’t even blink. Just gives her the same polite smile he uses on overly enthusiastic investors.
I glance up, murmur my order, and hand the menu back without so much as a second look. I’m too hungry for games, and frankly, the only woman I’ve been thinking about lately is back in Hibiscus Harbor planning a wedding menu. The waitress waits another beat, clearly hoping for some kind of spark. But when neither of us so much as flicker in her direction, she flounces off with a huff and an exaggerated sway of her hips.
Ian raises an eyebrow. "We still got it."
"I never wanted it," I mutter, reaching for my water and taking a long sip before setting the glass back down. I glance at Ian. "Alright, big brother—what’s this about? Did you drag me out here to talk business, or is this one of your surprise bonding moments?"
Ian leans back, folding his arms behind his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, I’ve got something for you.And no, it’s not more construction reports or a last-minute emergency—though you look like you miss those. This one's personal."
I cock an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Personal, huh? That sounds suspiciously like feelings, and I was promised burgers, not heart-to-hearts.”
